Sweet Momentum

You must be a teenager to ride.

We summit the Zipper,washed in waves of rock and roll,overlooking dense August corn fields.Bob and I, sixteen,are pinned by black bars,caged in metal mesh,shrieking. Like a comet in space,we throw our combined mass forward and back,forward and back,roll the chipped yellow carover and around,over and around,over and around,our stomachs whirl. How many times? 30? 46? No--FIFTY!